


Dreams of a Future Not yet in Being

by poppinelle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, One Shot, Pre-Trespasser, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppinelle/pseuds/poppinelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a mage, she dared not dream of the future until after this war and their fight with Corypheus was over. Her future was still too uncertain. Why bother to make plans when the Maker apparently took such great delight in dashing all of hers? Trevelyan finds that there are some things you may not plan for, but still need to discuss. An exploration of the Circle Mage/Cullen pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cressida

Cressida surveyed the messy contents of her tent, her calves aching from a long day’s trek. She’d hastily thrown down her supplies when they made camp several hours ago, and so now she fumbled through her saddlebags looking for a healing poultice for the growing bruise along her thigh. She hadn’t even seen the terror demon until it was barreling into her, too distracted had she been by the power of the anchor as she attempted to close the rift. It was a clumsy mistake, but she had found it rather difficult to focus as of late. 

She turned to her clothing pack and her heart sank as she came across her supply of rags. She was late. Very late. It had been over two months now, almost three, since her last cycle. She had almost forgotten. It was possible that the absence was just due to stress, but part of her knew that such a wishful thought was just her mind trying to offer up a comforting lie. No, she knew what this meant. 

Cressida sighed heavily as the realization set in. She had been so very careful since their first encounter all those months ago. Cullen’s boldness had taken her by surprise, and luck had been with them that first time around. Afterwards Cressida went down to the the herb garden to make sure that it had all of the ingredients that she needed. She would not leave their fate to luck again and she did intend for it to happen again. _And again_. So she’d made sure that the garden had a steady supply of herbs and that her potions were brewed and ready. 

It was a potion she did not need a recipe for, one that almost every young female Circle mage learned, unofficially, as they reached maturity. Vivienne had caught her in the garden one day and leveled a knowing stare, and Leliana made a teasing comment in the War Room one afternoon about ‘tea time’ when Cressida and Cullen arrived late, each doing their best to pretend to not be as disheveled as they appeared.

She’d run out of her supply when they’d overstayed their exploration of the Hissing Wastes. The scouts had done an admirable job of mapping the region but had failed to convey a truly adequate sense of scale, and no one had expected there to be so many Venatori lurking out in the desert sands. Her party was gone a week longer than they had expected and she went four days without a single drop of the potion. 

When she returned to Skyhold she had fully intended to keep her distance from him until she could resume the regimen. They were both busy, so she thought it would be an easy avoidance. It was not, and even if she could have kept her own desires at bay, she did not have the willpower to deny him as well. What were the odds, after all? Within two days of her homecoming their coupling had resumed. And that had been…two and a half months ago.

 _Fool._ She chided herself, pinching the bridge of her nose. How could she be so stupid, so weak? She took a deep breath in, trying to steady the nervous racing of her heart and fill the sudden void where her stomach had been. She started cataloging her options, biting her lip and surveying the chaos that was her life as represented in the tent: bags strewn haphazardly across a dirt floor, a bottle of mostly empty Nevarran sweet wine peaking out of one of her packs, a ragged tome on advanced battle stances straddling her bedroll, and her staff, still covered in demon ichor, leaning against the corner pole. Yes, she was a fine mess already without this untimely realization. 

She covered her face with a hand and tapped her foot. There was another potion she could brew, one far more potent that would end it. She had almost all the ingredients that she needed and it would not be too difficult to track down some snakeroot in the Dales. 

It was considered a kindness in the Circle, far preferable to growing great with child only to have the babe ripped from your breast the moment a suitable wet nurse was located. Children of the Circle were an ugly, painful secret. Sent to an orphanage almost immediately, they would never know their parentage, never see their mothers again. At least, those were the lucky ones. The unlucky ones arrived back at a tower, still left unclaimed. The Chantry made sure that children were always sent to a different Circle from that of their mother to avoid ‘difficulties.’ And what difference did it make to know your mother when she was a stranger locked in another tower, far away? 

A nasty taste rose on the back of her tongue as she remembered the sobs of a young enchanter as her infant son was taken away. Olenna. She would never forget the woman’s desperate, hopeless wailing, or how the babe had slept soundly through the whole ordeal, swaddled happily against the Templar’s plate armor. 

And yet, she could not bring herself to really consider ending the pregnancy, if that’s what this was. It was selfish and weak, but she could not do it. She did not want to make such a final decision on her own and yet she dared not burden Cullen with the knowledge that she now possessed. Not now. Their battle with Corypheus loomed close and the Commander worried too much after her own safety as it was. She was more than just the Herald or the Inquisitor to him and she did not want that to interfere with whatever needed to be done. What was it that he had said to her? At first he only worried about their survival, but now he worried about after that…No. She could not tell him, she would not fill his head with all sorts of possibilities when it was very likely that she would not even survive this war.

 _But what were the possible outcomes?_ They had never really spoken about the future, at least not anything beyond vague promises whispered from one pillow to another. So much was out of their hands that she dared not dream in specifics. Would the Circles be restored? Would she go back to Ostwick? How much freedom could mages be given and still be trusted by the common people? Would the Templars still protect them? Could she ever live a somewhat normal life, neither a prisoner nor a pariah?

Cressida tried to envision a future for them, one where she was free to marry Cullen and raise a family, and she was shocked by how much she welcomed the fantasy and how much pain that caused her. Such hopes were beyond her reach. Maybe her status could grant her a reprieve from the Circle, like Vivienne, but to ask for more would be to risk having too many powerful enemies. She was not even sure that Cassandra would approve. 

And what of Cullen? When he thought of the world after this war, what future did he see? Surely he did not think it possible to have a normal life with her, to make her his wife. Mages did not marry. Mages did not have families. Mages were not free. Not in the world they had been raised in, and it was difficult to imagine it otherwise even now. Cullen was a good man, and as much as he insisted that he was an ex-Templar, it was unlikely that he would abandon all of the Chantry’s teachings.

No, they were simply lovers. That was all they could ever be, even if she carried his child inside her. She closed her eyes and tried very hard not to think about the scandal it would cause and wondered how long she could hide it. The Herald of Andraste carrying her Commander’s bastard child. 

She would owe Josephine quite badly if she decided to keep it. 

It. Her eyes fluttered open and she pressed a hand to her abdomen. It was an it right now, about the size of olive or grape. She wondered idly if it was a boy or girl and though she found herself not having much of a preference, she could not help but envision him with a little girl in his arms. They both had the same coloring, so boy or girl, it was likely to have golden hair and fair features. She smiled, despite herself. Maybe the child would have his eyes. 

_No. No, I mustn’t do this to myself._

She tried to breathe in deeply to still herself. Detachment. Calm. Focus. That was what she needed. But instead her mind drifted to Cassandra’s recent discovery about the Rite of Tranquility. If what Cass had read was true—that the Rite was the same process that Seekers went through during training—then perhaps there was a way that a mage could undergo the vigil and become immune to possession, without losing themselves? Unlikely, but still...a possibility. Would it mean being cut off from magic? There was always a price for these sorts of things, after all. It would be an unwelcome trade, but at least then magic could be a choice instead of a sentence.

She wondered, if such a choice was offered to her, would she take it? She recoiled at the thought of losing her magic but found that her heart had grown rather traitorous. Would it not be so much easier? What had this life given her other than isolation and fear? She could feel the temptations lurking on the edges of her mind sometimes, a sickly whisper that promised her that all she had to do was let the spirits in and things would be so much better. 

The voices that had barely registered before the Conclave now grew in crescendo, as if the Anchor pulled them closer, like moths to a lantern. They came to her now in her most desperate moments, when her party was being overwhelmed in battle and her breath was short and she could feel death whispering across the Veil. They broke through her concentration when her mana was at its weakest and offered one last source of raw, untapped power. She wondered if all mages heard it at some point, or if she was just weak, only a stumble away from possession. It was not a topic she was about to broach with anyone that she knew. Certainly not with Cullen. 

A chance for true tranquility, for peace from demons, but with her emotions still intact? No longer a danger to her friends and family, and able to live a normal life? It was tempting. 

Cressida looked down at her pack again, snapping herself out of it, and resumed looking for the poultice. She could not lose herself in ridiculous daydreams. She had real choices to make now, and in the near future. And she had already made one of them, even if it was by inaction. She would wait, see what happened, and then let him know, after this war was over. They could have a discussion about the future when they were certain that there would be one.

\--- 

She bled two weeks later, after they arrived back in Skyhold. She could not tell if stress had kept her cycle at bay or if she had actually been with child and lost it, but either way she was relieved. 

One less choice to make. 

Which is why it surprised her so much when she started to cry.


	2. Cullen

Cullen decided to join her in her quarters that afternoon. They did not have much time alone together these days, but he tried to join her here whenever possible, even if all it meant was sitting together in companionable silence as they finished with the day’s demands. He found her presence to be enough of a source of comfort; and if it sometimes led to a little bit of distraction, he wasn’t about to castigate himself for it. He sprawled out on her settee, his boots off and sleeves rolled up. On days like these, he gave in to her frequent requests to “be less stuffy” and eschewed his plate armor. Cressida had smiled when he’d showed up to her room in a linen shirt and a quilted doublet, but the first sign that something was amiss was that there was no mischievous glint in her eyes as she surveyed him. 

Cullen watched her closely from his perch, his frown deepening. She was pouring over reports, but it appeared as though her mind was somewhere else. She kept glancing up from her desk and out at the balcony, staring at something he could not see. A few moments later she pinched the bridge of her nose before staring back down at Harding’s impeccable and unmistakable script. 

“Cressida, is there something wrong?”

She looked startled and then suddenly guilty. “No, I just...I am quite exhausted.” 

He stood, moving towards her. This was not the first time she had used this excuse since returning to Skyhold. “You have been rather tired since you returned from the Dales...and somewhat distant. I know that there has not been much time for...us...as of late. I hope I have not added to your burdens.”

There was that look again. It was as if she was staring out into the Void and not a soul could reach her. It made his chest tighten. He cupped her cheek, and she leaned into his hand gently, savoring the warmth. “Please, Cres, tell me what is wrong. I cannot bear to see that look upon your face and not know the cause of it. Let me help, if I can.” 

She scanned his features, and finally let her eyes meet his. “I don’t think you can.” She said quietly.

“Would it hurt to try?” He tried to summon a small smile, but it died as soon as she turned away from him. 

Something was very wrong. Normally she was the one trying to pry worry and words out of him. To see her so withdrawn, when normally she had such a vibrant presence, was unnerving. She was silent for a few moments longer, deliberately avoiding his gaze. Just as he was about to move closer to her again, she spoke, barely above a whisper.

“Do you want children?”

 _That_ was not what he had been expecting. “I - ah” He floundered, “I -” No, he had not expected that at all. And he honestly did not have an answer. For most of his life, he had just assumed that was a possibility that he’d foreclosed on. Templars could marry, yes, but he had been married to to the ideal of the Order even before he emerged from Kinloch Hold a broken man. A wife and child did not register in his dreams; it was so remote a possibility that it was not even something that his nightmares bothered to torture him with. But now…

“I do not know. Why do you ask?” Even as the question left his tongue, Cullen could feel the prickle of realization dawning. She looked away again, but he could see the wetness in her eyes. _Oh, what a blighted fool I am, I’ve made a mess of this_. He leaned down next to her at the desk, grasping her marked hand in his, and he felt a dryness in his throat as he struggled to form the next question. “Cressida, are you with child?” 

She finally met his eyes and shook her head. _No_.

Cullen didn’t know what to do with the emotions that hit him - relief was first, of course. Now would be a terrible time to have a child; they had not planned, had not even discussed this possibility. Immediately next was shame. Of _course_ this was a possibility. He was not some sheltered idiot, how could they not have spoken about it? And then there was fear; the realization that even if she had been carrying his child, it did not suddenly release her from this battle. That was an old fear, one that he had carried since Haven, and a frequent fuel for his nightmares as of late. But the emotion that was the strangest was the distant sense of disappointment. He met her eyes again, and realized that she was watching his reaction closely, waiting for him to say something. “I suppose that is a good thing, for now, at least,” he said softly. 

Her throat constricted, and she gave him a sad, small smile, and nodded. “For now.” She repeated. 

It felt like an invitation to a larger conversation, and so he stood slowly, pulling her gently from her chair, and led her to the bed. He laid back against the ridiculous ornate pillows, reaching his arms out to her. “Come, talk to me.” 

She allowed him to pull her down, nestling herself in the crook of his arm. He leaned down, kissing her brow, and began to rub circles on her arm. They laid in silence for a few moments longer. If there was something he had learned from her and the way she carefully coaxed words out of others, himself included, it was patience. Sometimes one needed a few moments to gather their thoughts, needed the safety of being able to speak on their own terms. 

She began to pick at the laces on his collar. The mark on her hand was silent. It had long since ceased flaring when she was at Skyhold; closing the rifts near the fortress had been one of her first priorities when they’d arrived. Right now it looked almost like an ordinary scar. Though he knew it was often still tender, it looked like a wound that had long since healed over, the pigment only slightly lighter than the rest of her palm and the skin did not pucker like a fresh cut. In the waning, warm light of early sunset, the greenish hue was barely visible. He gripped her hand in his again, tracing a light line with his thumb against the mark. 

“I missed two cycles.” She began. “I think - I think it was just stress, but there was the possibility…” 

“Have you been to a healer?” he murmured into her hair, and there was a part of his heart that tightened, wondering if perhaps she was wrong, perhaps there was still the possibility. 

“No… it… worked itself out. I bled once we returned from the Dales.” She inhaled deeply. 

“You should have said something. I could have—” And he stopped abruptly, realizing there was nothing he could have done, aside from what he was doing now. “I would have understood.” 

She turned in his arms to face him, her brows pressed together severely. “Would you?”

“Cressida—” 

“It would not change anything,” she stated, her voice dull and flat, and he wanted to argue with her, but he knew she was right. “I did not want you to worry. Not until I was certain, not until after…” 

She trailed off and his stomach dropped when he realized why she did not complete the thought. She would not have told him until after the assault on the Arbor Wilds. Not until after Corypheus was defeated. Leliana’s scouts had located the Red Templar’s camp a few weeks ago, and he was in the midst of organizing plans to mobilize their army. Two cycles. He did the math quickly then - by the time they marched, she would not have been showing. 

_If_ she had been carrying their child. 

It was reckless and somehow both selfish and infuriatingly selfless, but he found it difficult to be angry with her over something that had not come to pass. No, he should be angry with himself, fool that he was, falling in love with a prophet and distracting her from their mission. But the thought of having a child with her—once this was over, once the the fears he dared not articulate were beyond them—he found that he was not opposed to the idea. That while he could not quite picture himself as a father, the image of her with a babe at her breast felt...right, despite all of the other fears that it would invite. He turned the question around on her now. “Do _you_ want children?” 

Her eyes widened. “I—I do not know. I did not ever think it was an option for myself. But now...” She turned back, resting her head on his chest again.

“I think I know how you feel.” Torn. Guilty. Hopeful. Fearful. It was different of course. It had been his choice to give up such a life, whereas she had never had any input on the matter. He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, trying to find the best answer for them both. “Do you remember what I said to you, that night in my office?” 

She laughed, a little annoyed aristocratic huff of air, and it made him feel much lighter. He would hate that laugh if it came from anyone else, but from her, it filled him with amusement. It was one of the few reminders that she was a _lady_ , even if the Circle had technically stripped that title away from her, and it amused him greatly. “You will have to be more specific.” She was teasing him, but he let her have it right back. 

“That night on my _desk_.” 

She laughed again, but this time it was a full-throated chuckle. 

He tried very hard to be serious, but could not help but smile. “I told you that after this was over, I would not want to move on from you. Not ever. And I meant it.”

She pulled away suddenly, sitting up, but her smile was soft. She let her fingers trace his jawline to an ear, smoothing an unruly lock of hair behind it. “I know.” She let her hand come to rest in her lap and sat up a little more stiffly, looking down for a moment before continuing. “But what does that mean for us, a mage and a former Templar? Or as the Inquisitor and the Commander? I keep trying to picture the future after Corypheus, the one we are fighting for, and yet I cannot see the path forward.” 

She shifted off the bed and stood, walking towards the balcony.

“Leliana and Cassandra speak of changing things.” She placed a hand on the scattered reports at her desk. “Leliana speaks of changing _everything_. And that should be a comfort, but I find it more unnerving than anything else. I do not want the old system, but I cannot imagine the new one. I honestly don’t know what I want—for the Chantry, for the mages, for the Inquisition—” She laughed. It was that haughty puff of air again, the noblewoman’s laugh that she had somehow carried with her to the Circle after they’d dragged her away from her family. “And certainly not for myself.” 

He felt his gut twisting again, and shifted to sit upright. “What do you mean?” For him, just being with her had seemed like enough. Like more than enough. Perhaps it was naive, but he wanted to think that was all they needed.

She turned, and he could see all the worry and anger written on her face. “I mean, what becomes of the Inquisition? Will I forever be its Inquisitor? Or will they shuffle me off to a Circle Tower once all the rifts are healed and the world remembers that I am a mage?”

“They can bloody well try.” The statement came out more harshly than he had intended it, but then the sentiment was strong. He too had played this scenario in his head, and though usually he found the very notion of anyone even _trying_ to cage her again ridiculous, sometimes he let it play out. She was a mage, yes, but she was also an icon, and she had legions who were devoted to her because of her actions, not just because of that otherworldly mark. People would riot, surely. The Chantry would need to send an army. 

And he would not let them take her if she did not want to go. It was absurd, really, and he recognized it; that he of all people would fight so fiercely to keep a mage free. The Maker truly had a bizarre sense of humor. He was still cautious about magic at times, but when it came to her, it was hard to see just the danger. Yes, mages were at greater risk of possession, he still knew that better than most. But how many Templars, soldiers, and war refugees also had demons stalking their sleep due to the horrors they’d seen? 

She was far stronger and more willful than most of them. A small voice protested that she was also far more dangerous _because_ she was a powerful mage, but he could not dwell on _that_ for long. The truth was that he feared more for his own soul than hers most days, no matter how brightly her mark shone in the Fade. Perhaps he was a fool, perhaps his love for her had blinded him, perhaps he was just trying to justify his own selfishness, but he really did believe in her. 

“And say that mages are free.” She frowned, putting her hands on her hips. “Or perhaps just I am allowed to remain outside the Circle. What then? What if I did become pregnant? Are you—” she choked harshly on the words that came out next, “Are you comfortable with your children being bastards?”

“Cressida—” He stood, surprised by how quickly she was allowing the hypothetical to spiral.

“And what if they’re like me?” She brought a hand to her mouth, tears beginning to fall, as she forced the words out. “What if they have magic?”

He closed the space between them as quickly as possible, wrapping his hands around her shoulders as she hunched them, her body shuddering as she held back sobs. He let her cry into the fabric of his vest. He smoothed her hair, and gathered his thoughts before he dared to speak, hoping he could piece together the right words for once. His thoughts were a dizzying mess. The pleasant shock that she might want to have his children, the unsettling knowledge that they could also have the burden of magic. The reality that no matter what happened, the path for them would not be an easy one. He could not promise her much right now, other than honesty. Honesty seemed the best way forward. 

He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what will come to pass either. You cannot torture yourself with these worries. Right now, it takes most of my strength to just believe that there will _be_ a future after all of this. And _you_ , you are the only reason I even dare to hope. Whatever the future brings, I know that you will be able to persevere.”

She made a muffled sound into his doublet, a strangled laugh, and he let her pull away slightly so he could see her face. Her skin was red and blotchy, her coppery green eyes rimmed with red, and yet even now he found her captivating. “You have so much faith in me.” It was a pointed comment, and there was a challenge in it behind the amusement. 

“I assure you, it has nothing to do with this,” he pulled back and reached for her marked hand. “And everything to do with this.” He moved her palm to rest against her left breast, his hand firmly pressed against hers so she could feel her own heart beat. She looked down at their entwined hands, and then back up at him. Her smile was radiant then, and he was not sure whether she would begin to laugh or cry. Probably both, knowing her. 

“All I ask is that you have some faith in me. Know that whatever happens, I will be here, right beside you. And that I will love you always, whatever the Maker sees fit to grant us.” 

She stared back at him for a moment, eyes wide, before sniffing and indulging in the most brilliant smile. "Oh," she answered with a happy puff of air, "we are such fools.” 

He nodded and kissed her forehead. “Such lucky, lucky fools.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SorchaCahill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SorchaCahill/pseuds/SorchaCahill) for taking a look at an early, much rougher version of this; [CES479](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CES479/pseuds/CES479) for listening to me prattle on about mages and babies; and [Dulcidyne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcidyne/pseuds/Dulcidyne) for her fantastic feedback as I wrote and reworked it over several months.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated :)


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